


Glam, Glitter, and Guitars

by Leoblooms



Category: The Beatles
Genre: AU, M/M, McLennon, hints of John/Stu, stuart/astrid later, there's also some paul/linda too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoblooms/pseuds/Leoblooms
Summary: Paul McCartney, an aspiring musician who just has not been able to get his foot in the door of the music industry, has taken to becoming a roadie for a new, up and coming band, The Silver Beatles, led by their frontman, Johnny Moonbeam. Johnny is infamous for being known as the one to start the "glam rock" movement, and has stirred much controversy for conveying such an image in 1965, earning a watchful eye from law enforcement everywhere he so much as breathes in. Paul being too desperate for a job to so much as bother looking into the band, takes the offer to be their roadie blindly. However, Paul soon finds that he might have bitten off more than he can chew when he immediately clashes with Johnny's strong and brash personality, but knows he has to do this as this might be his only chance to make it somewhere.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! So here's a new story I've been batting around for a while after finishing up Run for Your Life. I'm hoping you guys will enjoy the story and feedback is always really appreciated!

The phone’s shrill ring attacked Paul’s eardrums as he turned in his slumber. The morning sun only leaking through the closed blinds of his flat’s bedroom window, yet still Paul felt the need to yank the duvet up to shield his eyes. Grumbles and mutters escaping his lips, Paul fumbled for the clock by his bed. The alarm had not even gone off, but he was still being awoken by an equally unwanted sound. Blinking away the bleariness in his eyes, Paul saw that it was six in the morning, a whole two hours before his regular wake up time.  

“For fuck’s sake…” he cursed, slamming the clock down. What the hell could someone want this goddamn early. It should be a crime to call so early, Paul thought to himself. A crime punishable by  _death_ , or at least the loss of phone privileges. He thought to bury his head under the pillow to wait for the ringing to end, and call whomever it was back. But the person on the other line had other plans, as the ringing stopped for one good breath, then started again, seemingly louder and more beckoning. Like a rooster crowing and calling at dawn, awaiting for the day a disgruntled farmer pried his eyes open to get to work. Paul groaned loud enough for the neighbors to hear, finally sitting up, and reached for the phone.  

“Yes?” he asked, irritation obvious in his voice as he gripped the phone wire. He brought the phone and its base with him as he reclined on the bed, against the headboard. He placed the base on his lap and grabbed the curly wire once again. 

“Is this Paul McCartney?” a tentative, yet almost posh, voice questioned.  

“It is,” he confirmed, balancing the phone on his shoulder and rubbing his forehead.  “Who’s this?” Paul loosened his hold on the wire and began to twirl it around his index finger. The man on the line hesitated for a moment. 

“Brian Epstein, we talked not too long ago, remember?” Paul thought about his words, and began to recall the man. They had spoken on the need for a band he managed for a roadie, as they were about to be going on tour. Paul thought back to sitting in the man’s clean, little office, discussing how qualified he truly was. If he was able to lift, be ready to defend the band from fans, and if he could handle long tours. Of course it wasn’t ideal to Paul to do so much lifting and labor, but he lied through his teeth and claimed it to be no issue. He then remembered waiting about two weeks after their talk without a single phone call and considered it lost, or at least he thought.  

“Yeah, yeah I remember. Sorry, I’m usually not prepared to think back so much at six in the morning,” Paul said. Brian apologized quickly for waking him up. 

“Would you be able to start?” Brian then asked.  

“Today??” Paul  subconsciously brushed and fixed his messy hair with his fingers. The man had to be joking, Paul could have burst into a laughing fit if he wasn’t so irked.   

“I realize it’s short notice, but Johnny insists on having everything ready, including a new roadie.”   

“Maybe he should have thought of that a week ago if he wanted to be ready so badly,” Paul said, his tone sour. All this time wasted only to be called back so last minute. It was ridiculous, and this “Johnny” clearly had no concept of planning ahead. He could have had his new roadie a week ago, but instead, he chose to wait around until Paul thought it was gone. Paul heard Brian profusely apologize once again.  

“I understand your annoyance, and am fully prepared to pay you for the time lost because of this,” Brian explained. “We are in great need, we have no roadies whatsoever at the moment.” 

“None at all?” 

“Yes, the last one had just left.  _Creative differences_ , you could say…” The manager’s voice dripped with anxiety and stress as he explained the situation. His voice quavered and grew tight as he fit in every single syllable he could before taking another breath. As if the manager was granted only a limited amount of oxygen to get that new, desperately needed roadie. Paul felt almost sorry for the man and gave a long sigh.  

“What time do you need me?”  

“Fantastic!” he practically shrieked. “In a half hour if you could, and I’ll tell you the address now.” Paul agreed, running off to fetch a pen and paper.  

Once he had written the address with the name, Apple Studios, Paul quickly dressed himself. He was not too worried about looking presentable, they would have to understand, and Paul was sure Brian would at the very least. Though, he had the feeling that  _Johnny_  might be a bit different, despite expecting people to drop everything for him and his band. Paul figured he would have to see for himself without making a judgement. Stuffing the note into his pocket, Paul hurried outside and hailed a cab.  

 

☆☆☆ 

“It’s wonderful to have gotten you on such notice!” the dark haired manager from the phone exclaimed to the man following behind him. “Our last roadie leaving was utterly devastating, just this morning he stormed out, yelling and raving. We have Johnny to thank for that, but Johnny’s always been impossible to get along with, he can-erm- be quite abrasive. I should hope that won’t be a problem?” The man following behind waved his hand and claimed it was no problem, that he was honored to work with such a talented musician. The reality was however, that this man who went by the name, Paul McCartney, actually never heard of this musician. He hadn’t even listened to a single song or bothered to look into who they even were. All he knew was the frontman, “Johnny Moonbeam,” of  _The Silver Beatles_ , required a new roadie, and Paul needed the cash. He also figured that the best way to get his foot in the door of the music industry, was to make good connections, even if he had to start out lower than he pictured.  

Brian decided it was for the best to take Paul to actually meet the musician before actually starting his job. To get a taste of Johnny’s personality before deciding the job was for him, but Paul knew that no matter what, he would take the job offer. He wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity due to a frontman’s shitty personality. Paul was led to a dressing room in which Johnny and the rest of the band members were getting ready for a publicity shoot before they go on their nationwide tour across Europe. Brian placed his hand on the door, blocking Paul’s entry at first. His face seemed a bit hesitant and tentative as he scanned Paul up and down. Paul thought for a minute that they were about to walk in on them completely naked by the look on his face. 

“And I assume you already know about The Silver Beatles…signature look?” Paul was taken back a bit by confusion. Signature look? What did he mean? Paul stared blankly, trying to process the last two words fully. This had to be a test, Paul decided to himself. A test to make sure he actually knew about the band, which he didn’t. But Paul was very keen on the phrase, “fake it til you make it,” and decided to go along and see where he’d wind up. 

“Of course!” Paul gave a good-hearted chuckle. “Just what do you think I am?” Brian nodded, not following with another question like Paul half expected. Pushing the door open, Paul was exposed the men inside of the dressing room. It was then he realized that their “signature look” meant much more than a little test of his knowledge.  

“Johnny,” started Brian, not noticing Paul’s face in utter shock, “I’ve brought the new roadie to meet you and the boys.” Johnny chuckled and stood from his chair to fully reveal himself. Paul almost wished that the man was nude rather than what he saw. What he saw was a group of mop-topped men, faces caked in thick make-up, covered head to toe in shimmering clothes and shoes that looked to be women’s high heels. The clothes resembled a teddy boy, leather jacket look, except much more revealing of their chests and tighter pants that especially hugged the frontman's thighs. Each outfit, although the same design with gold trim, was a different color; green on Johnny, orange on a much younger man with thick bushes for eyebrows, pink on the shorter man with an exceptionally large nose and more masculine appearance, and blue on the last lad with sunglasses  _indoors._  Paul bit back the urge to cry with laughter at the ridiculous sight, and believed that the outfits could not get anymore covered in glitter. Paul wouldn’t be shocked if the four men were  _made_ of glitter. They even had makeup coated on their faces for God’s sake! Still, he held out his hand politely and greeted the frontman. 

“Hello, honor to meet you, Johnny.” Johnny stepped forward with narrowed eyes and a curled lip. Paul felt so small in his presence. However, he concluded that it could just be the heels that seemed to allow Johnny to tower over him. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he growled, slapping Paul’s hand. Paul’s eyes widened as his body froze.  

“I-I’m Paul, your new roadie.”  

“Exactly, so why the fuck do you think you can call me by my name?!” Paul was taken back by this. He was just trying to be polite and this is what he got in return. Was he already about to ruin his chance with one stupid mistake?  

“Excuse me?” 

You heard me! The roadie never calls me by me first name!” the men behind him nodded.  

“What should I call you then?” Paul asked, the question coming put a bit snarkier than intended. Johnny only narrowed his eyes even more. 

“Mr. Moonbeam, son.” 

“You’re serious?” Paul’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. This had to be the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all day. The man was either drunk or brain dead if he thought Paul was going to take that seriously.  

“Couldn’t be any more serious if I tried.” John said, picking at the chunky green eye make-up that covered his eyelids. Paul’s mouth was agape, he couldn’t be serious. “If ye don’t like it, Brian can always show you out.” Johnny glanced to Brian, giving him a nod. Paul never turned away, despite the intimidating act he was putting on. It was difficult to bring himself to directly look into his brown eyes, so instead he focused in the chunky eye makeup. He shook his head, drunk and brain dead had triumphed. He wasn’t about to let the man get to him that easy, even if he could feel his blood practically boil into steam somehow.  

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Moonbeam.” Paul then offered up his best smile to show he meant no malice. John’s face stayed unmoving until a cackle came from behind him. It had been the youngest man in orange, laughing away at who knows what.  

“Cut the shit, Johnny!” he cried through laughter. 

“You’re gonna scare the poor boy away on his first day.” the man in pink added. Finally it was Johnny’s turn to laugh right in Paul’s bewildered face. 

“Come on, you know it was fucking great!” he called back. “Should’ve seen your face!” John doubled over with another cruel laugh. Paul turned to Brian who stood awkwardly.  

“John.” Brian warned, not using the full “Johnny.” 

“Lighten up, Eppy. He’s a grown man, he can handle a bit of teasing. Ain’t that right,  _Paul_?” Johnny asked, putting a mockingly large amount of emphasis on Paul’s name. His smile stretched like the Cheshire Cat, revealing odd cracks in the shiny, gold lipstick he wore.  _A drag queen Cheshire Cat_ , Paul thought to himself. He felt his face grow a tinge pinker as the bandmates behind Johnny stifled their laughter. Was hatred for these men already bubbling up inside Paul? No, not yet, Paul wouldn’t allow himself to hate them just yet, a shitty joke was not about to do that. 

“Yeah, that’s right.” Paul mustered through his grit teeth and attempt to bite back his anger.  

“See, Bri? Paulie can be a bit of a man.” John’s grin remained strong, the cracks in his lipstick looked to form into small, sideways smiles. Laughing and mocking Paul, reminding him who was on top. An icy fire burned inside Paul’s stomach, and he had the uncontrollable urge to punch him square in those mocking lips. 

“Yeah, but it is a bit hard,” Paul said, “seems that to be a man in this group you need to be covered in women’s make-up.” Paul had to let that one out, and Johnny couldn’t argue that it wasn’t true. Still, the cracks in Johnny’s lipstick were closed and hidden as his smile faltered.  

“Very observant, but then I don’t think you’d be able to be a man then in this group. Ye already have the face of a bird, make-up will make it worse, son,” Johnny spat, the men behind him snickered, and Paul grew redder.  

“Boys, please,” Brian intervened, coming between them.  

“What? If he can’t handle this shit, he ought to leave now like that other arsehole!” Johnny pointed a green nail polished finger to the door. Paul shot daggers at John, not giving him the satisfaction of turning around. Biting the inside of his cheek so hard Paul swore he tasted a mouthful of burning hot blood, the man wanted nothing more than to say just what he wanted to say to this Moonbeam bloke. In fact, Paul was sure he had a good list of things to say and he’s only met the guy  _once_.  

“Paul, if you want to go, it’s fine,” Brian whispered to the younger man, but Paul rejected the offer. He shook his head, and finally stared right through Johnny’s eyes, creating a silent battle for dominance. Brian couldn’t help but shudder while standing right between them, sparks hitting him like lightning.  

“I suppose it won’t be so easy getting rid of you then, eh?” Johnny rhetorically asked.  

“You suppose right,” Paul answered anyway. Johnny’s scowl turned to a smirk, a glint of playfulness shined through him. Paul wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.  

“Well then I suppose ye should come meet the lads.” Johnny chuckled and motioned for the rest of the band to make their way closer to Paul. He looked between the three, praying that they were much more tolerable than their frontman. He soon came to the conclusion that they looked fairly friendly and harmless, well most of them did. The one with the dark shades still gave Paul mixed feelings, though he couldn’t exactly tell why. Maybe it was his lack of emotion? Or the fact that Paul couldn’t even see his eyes, giving a very secretive feeling that rubbed him the wrong way.  

“Alright, son listen closely ‘cause there’s gonna be a quiz on it,” Johnny said, pointing a finger to the youngest looking one in orange. “This is our guitarist, little Georgie-“ 

“George,” the man in orange corrected as he made his way over, giving a small snarl that showed off his fanged snaggle tooth.  

Johnny waved him off and whispered to Paul. “He’s the baby of the group, you know how kids get.” The whisper was followed by George punching John hard in the arm.  

Before Johnny could properly introduce the man in pink, he stepped forward himself.  

“I’m Ringo.” He took Paul’s hand and shook it, the smell of his strong perfume slipping into Paul’s nostrils. Paul didn’t bother to question the name as he could easily see the many shiny rings that covered his fingers. “I play the drums,” he added on with a grin.  

“You good?” Paul asked with a hint of humor in his voice. Ringo playfully scoffed. 

“Best damn drummer around,” Johnny interjected, throwing his arm around the smaller man, rubbing his head. He combed through the drummer’s hair, eliciting a push from Ringo. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Hate to brag but I’m pretty good,” Ringo said. Paul nodded with a grin that shrank when John dragged the man in blue over.  

“And this here’s Stu.” Johnny said, putting an arm around the man. He nodded, face blank and unreadable. 

“Stuart Sutcliffe.” He gave another nod, still yet to show any emotion. Though Paul suspected a hint of judgement in the cold stare behind the shades. Paul couldn’t help the curling of his lip, and Johnny took quick notice to it. Leaning into the man, Johnny pecked his lips to Stu’s cheek, leaving behind a golden residue.  

“That look of disgust means he likes you I think!” Johnny declared in a shrill voice. 

“Hope so, otherwise he’s gonna have a shit time,” Stu said, wiping away the lipstick. The two shared a short laugh much to Paul’s annoyance.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Paul spoke up, knitting his brow. The frontman opened his mouth to shoot back an answer, but was cut off by Brian stepping forward with a nervous chuckle.  

“Don’t mind that,” he assured. “My boys are so grateful to have you. Isn’t that right?” The manager turned and waited for responses. George and Ringo both mumbled a “yeah,” while Stu gave a nod. Johnny however, did nothing. “Isn’t that right,  _Johnny_?” Brian grit his teeth. 

 Johnny waved his hand, absent-mindedly brushing his auburn hair with his fingers. “Yeah, we’re all so in debt to ye.” 

“Well I’d think you’d be a bit more grateful considering that it was  _you_ who wanted a roadie last minute.” 

"What? Do you want me down on me bleeding knees??" 

"Wouldn’t hurt to be a little grateful is all I'm saying!" Johnny then dramatically dropped to his knees, folding his hands together. 

“Oh forgive me, sir! I apologize for my insolence!” he proclaimed in an even more dramatic voice. Johnny crawled to Paul, placing his hands on his thighs. Paul must have looked like a strawberry considering how red he was as Johnny was eye level with his crotch. “This is what you want right? To show how bloody grateful I am?!”  

“John! Stand up and stop making a fool of yourself!” Brian scolded. Pushing up from his knees, John pouted and gave a doglike whimper. 

“Sorry, Mummy. I was only doing what our new friend asked for.” 

“About to blow him right here?” George laughed.  

“He’s got to show his thankfulness in typical Johnny fashion,” Ringo joined in, elbowing George.  

"Could you at least get a room, Johnny?" Stu called out. 

“Hey! Lest we forget that it’s Paulie who wants it!” Johnny cackled as Brian attempted to hush them.  

“Make fun if you want, but I doubt you’ll find another roadie.” Paul clenched his fists, vision as red as him. “Who else would wanna work for a bunch of fucking  _queers_  after all?!” The laughter died suddenly as the men looked at Paul. Their eyes went a bit wide, and Paul hoped it wasn’t out of surprise. How could they be shocked to hear anyone call them that with the way they dress? Though, they still looked incredibly offended.  

Before Paul could do anything, the frontman’s hands were on his chest, shoving him backwards onto the ground. Paul fell with a thump and peered upwards to Johnny who wore a genuine look of disgust. The cracks in his lips now stretched as his lips curled to reveal his white teeth.  

“Rather be a fucking queer than a stupid cunt!” he spat, standing over the man so that he was in between his legs. Paul didn’t say anything, and chose to only stare at the enraged man above him, then to his bandmates. They all were very still, like deer in front of a car, even Stu gave no chuckle towards Johnny’s actions. Trying to move, Paul felt the fabric of his shirt being held down by the heels of Johnny’s shoes. With a yank, Brian brought the frontman back, scolding him even more. Paul couldn’t hear it at first, an odd ringing residing in his ear for a brief second.  

“You need to control yourself!” Brian wagged his finger. “We have no time to find a replacement, and if you think we do then you’ve lost your mind! So please, for my mental stability, behave!” Johnny grumbled and air blew out of his nose.  _Like a bull_ , Paul connected in his mind. He guessed that that made Brian the matador, and his bandmates the audience, but what did that make Paul? Some poor bastard who didn’t know what he was signing up for when he decided to jump directly into the bull’s path covered in red.  

“Alright, Eppy, get your panties out of that twist.” Paul watched as Johnny knelt down and held out his hand.  

“Does our fair lady need a hand?” John sneered. Paul pushed the hand away. 

“Think I’ll be alright, thank you, miss.” he stood, brushing his clothes off.  

“This doesn’t change your stance on staying, right?” Brian felt the need to ask. Paul, knowing he still needed the job, affirmed him that he wouldn’t be leaving, earning a look from Johnny. The look screamed not as a look of annoyance or dismay, but perhaps the acceptance of a challenge. 

“Welcome aboard then.” Ringo came forward and shook Paul’s hand again, pulling him slightly forward. The drummer leaned in to whisper to the man. “Don’t mind Johnny, you get used to him.” The hot breath lingering in the frigid air around them. Paul swallowed, and hoped that Ringo was telling the truth. He was beginning to believe he had made a terrible choice of how to spend the next few months. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided that I'm going to try updating every Thursday instead of Monday! Also feedback is appreciated as I'm not sure how i feel on this chapter! :)

Listening to the clicks of the camera, Paul watched as the lady with short, blonde hair that was introduced to him as Astrid, took photos of Johnny and his bandmates. Her eyes widened and twinkled with every shot she took of the men, barely having to direct them as they seemed to already know what to do. Though, Paul noticed that her eyes seemed to always fall back to Stu, whether that was accidental or not, Paul was not sure. There were a few times where the men, mainly Johnny, felt the need to joke around and do things such as flipping off the camera and doing other obscene acts that would clearly not get published, but taken anyway for the hell of it. Johnny, at one point, had even grabbed Stu and practically draped himself over him, with his lips puckered as hands gently grabbed the fabric of his sparkling, blue clothes. Brian, as one would expect, was not amused and ordered them to take this shoot seriously. Johnny rolled his eyes. 

“If she’s gonna be with us this whole tour, she’ll have to learn to deal with us somehow,” Johnny said, playfully rubbing Stu’s chest until he was slapped away. Paul half expected Astrid to grow annoyed with their actions, but instead gave a quiet smile, and patiently waited for them to go back to their normal poses. Finally, Johnny did so, taking his spot front and center, with his hand on his popped out hip, and his head raised slightly. A sly grin plastered itself on Johnny’s face as he stared directly into the camera, challenging whomever would be seeing the photo to make eye contact, as everyone else adopted a neutral expression and similar poses. At one point, Paul was sure that Johnny blinked away from the camera to look at him, but only for a split second so Paul wouldn’t be able to even tell if it happened or not. One last click and Astrid had looked up to the band. 

“That should be enough, boys,” she said in her prominent German accent with a smile to them, then to their manager. She brushed her blonde fringe and only then did Paul realize that her and the band had the same haircut, with the exception that the men’s hair was a bit longer. Paul had to wonder if it was Astrid who copied them or the other way around. Something told him it was the latter. 

“Thank you again, Ms. Kircherr.” Brian smiled back. She nodded, claiming it was no problem, and she enjoyed the boys’ company. Paul saw as she said the last part, glancing towards Stu again. Did he actually look back? Who knew. He guessed that that unknown answer was enough to widen Astrid’s smile wider. 

“Plus, I know it’s hard to find many willing photographers,” she added with an understanding expression. Paul didn’t need a single explanation on that, as it spoke for itself once he finally saw what The Silver Beatles were all about. 

“Yeah, they wouldn’t wanna tarnish their shiny image!” John interrupted Brian before he could even speak. 

“Yeah, would rather look good than make anything of themselves.” George muttered with his arms crossed. Well, you get that when you cover yourself in make-up and queer get-ups, Paul thought, but didn’t dare say. 

“You just need to be patient,” Astrid said, coming closer to the group of men. “I’ll bet they’ll grow to love you eventually. After all, your sound is incredible, it’s one I’ve never experienced, but they need to adjust to your image. They just need time, and they will learn.” 

“Yeah, if they don’t arrest us first,” Johnny snorted, leaning into Astrid. “Between us, I’ll bet you any amount that it’ll be Stu first. Always had the most faggy appearance.” Astrid placed a hand over her mouth to conceal her giggle as Stu gave him a kick in the leg. Johnny yelped, pretending to almost fall over. 

“Pretty bold considering you’re the one with the tallest heels,” Stu retorted with a pout. 

“You’ve got the most make-up on. Don’t forget that, son.” Stu simply responded with another swift kick to Johnny’s leg, causing another surprised noise followed by a false cry of agony. Johnny collapsed to the floor, holding his “injured” leg. 

“You brute, you’ve crippled me, you have!!” Johnny cried, a hand on his forehead. Paul actually had to bite back a laugh at Johnny’s little scene. 

“John, get off of the floor.” Paul watched Brian make his way over, wagging a finger as he scolded him. 

“If only I could, Eppy, but I may never walk again!” he dramatically wailed. 

“So much for the tour,” Ringo chuckled. 

“We’ll alert the media now,” George said, tracing an imaginary line in the air. “Silver Beatles tour cancelled as bassist brutally attacks frontman!” 

“Oh, they’ll be heartbroken.” Stu put a hand over his chest, his lips curling into the first genuine smile Paul was sure he’s ever seen on the man. With his hand outstretched, Stu pulled the frontman back up. “Fair maiden.” He gave a bow to Johnny. 

“Don’t try sucking up now, son.” Paul saw Johnny wiggle his eyebrows, and Stu kept grinning. Paul felt like such an outsider watching them seemingly from afar, despite the fact that they were simply a few feet. In his head though, he was galaxies away from The Silver Beatles and anyone caught in their belt. Paul had no knowledge of whether or not he would one day be so much as a star within that galaxy, nor if he would want to. But spectating them, seeing Johnny and Stu so close and fooling around made something tug on his insides. What it was, Paul had no idea, and ran through the possible solutions in his head. 

Anger? 

Annoyance? 

Disgust? 

Jealousy? Paul shoved that one out, he couldn’t be jealous if he had nothing in the first place. Perhaps it could be envy towards everyone in Johnny’s little circle, feeling so left 

out and isolated. Whatever it was, Paul hadn’t the chance to decipher it as he was already being called to attention by Brian. Snapping out of it, Paul tuned in the manager’s words. 

“We’ll be leaving this Friday for the tour, so that should give you a few days to pack and ready yourself. I need you at the studio, 6 A.M. sharp, alright?” 

“Yeah, alright.” Paul nodded absent-mindedly, feeling the first pull of The Silver Beatles’ magnetic field into their solar system. It wouldn’t be long until he was fully submerged and on tour, there would be no way out at that point. Paul tried not to worry, but as soon as Johnny turned away from Stu to him with a smirk, he had a sinking feeling inside. 

☆☆☆ 

“Friday?” Linda asked over the phone, her voice sounding worried. “Isn’t that a bit soon?” 

“I suppose,” Paul sighed, running his fingers through his quiff of hair, “but there’s not much I can say about it. Their manager has already organized everything, and I think he’s got enough to deal with.” 

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Moonbeam, eh?” Paul could hear her snicker remembering when Paul felt the need to share his first meeting with the band. The teasing of course was to be expected, and it would most definitely irk him if it were from anyone else. 

“Hey now,” Paul grinned, pointing a finger to the receiver and waggling it, despite knowing Linda wouldn’t see. 

“Come on, Paul, you can’t expect me to not be amused by that.” 

“Yes, but could you at least pretend not to be while I’m here. Perhaps some words such as, ‘Yeah, what an areshole, fooling you like that,’ or something that isn’t follow by a giggle.” 

“Sorry, but I’m not sure if I can.” She giggled lightly which tugged at the corners of Paul’s lips. He found it almost impossible to remain angry. 

“I don’t have to take this abuse,” Paul said, still with a ridiculous smile on his face. He then turned a bit serious. “How are the States by the way?” 

“It’s all well and fine, I’ve actually got a couple jobs around New York City to take pictures of some new bands. You ever hear of The Stones?” Paul shook his head, and told her no. “They’re English, but they came here for a small tour. A bunch of nice boys they are.” 

“Any chance that they need a new roadie?” Paul asked, half serious. 

“Sorry, love, but I doubt it.” Paul and Linda went silent again. 

“I miss you,” he said, cradling the phone to his ear with his shoulder. He truly did miss her, the last time he even saw Linda in person was months ago when they first met. She was on trip to London for a job and met him by chance as he attempted to make a pitch for a record deal. She came up to him when she saw the disheartened look on his face that only harsh rejection could bring. When Paul saw her face, he saw just how beautiful she was even though she wore such little make-up. She never needed it, he concluded. They hit it off fairly quickly as they discussed their lives, ambitions, and so much more. She understood him, and supported his dreams of becoming a musician. Linda was from America, but saw traveling as a way to open her horizons and create more opportunities. Linda was unlike other women he met in his life, she spoke her mind and made it clear what she was about. She explained that she never did fancy the idea of settling down, and refused to unless she was ready. Paul respected that, and would never force her to, of course, but this long distance was killing him. 

“I know. I’ll try to visit again soon, Paul, but I’ve got so much.” 

“I get it, Linda, I’m not asking you to drop everything for me.” Paul’s voice carried an irritated tone, but was instantly dropped. “I just wish you were here, y’know.” 

“But you won’t even be there soon.” Paul nodded his head, forgetting that she couldn’t see through the phone. “I’m sorry, I know you miss me, but I promise the second I’m finished I’ll come see you.” 

“Hopefully I’ll be home by then.” 

“Maybe I could come with you,” she amused. “Your new friends might need some publicity shots by a certain blonde photographer.” 

“Sorry, love, but we already have the role of blonde photographer filled,” Paul laughed. 

“Better not get any ideas then,” she pretended to scold. 

“Of course not, I’d never.” Paul’s smile returned as he peered at his watch. Nearly midnight to Paul’s surprise. “I’ve got to go, Linda,” he said, sadly. The two said their goodbyes reluctantly, he wished he could have just a few more minutes. 

“I’ll call you every chance I get. I love you,” were Paul’s parting words before putting the receiver down. Rubbing his eye, a long yawn escaped him. While Paul planned on packing tonight so he could be fully prepared, his call with Linda went a tad over what he thought it would be, not that he complained. Talking with Linda always made him forget that time was a thing, and he just got so lost until he realized four hours had passed. It wasn’t a problem, he figured with another yawn. He could always get up extra early to pack his things, as he didn’t have much anyways. 

☆☆☆ 

Bbriiing! Bbriiing! Bbriiing! 

Crust stuck to Paul’s eyes as the alarm clock that just reached 5 A.M., beckoned him to wake up. He groaned and felt around for the clock, tempted to just throw it on the ground and go back to sleep. But he knew that a phone call would not be far behind and the last thing he wanted to hear was the sound of Brian having an anxiety attack. So he finally threw the duvet aside, and shuffled to his drawer filled with clothes. What would he even need? Shirts, pants, socks, and underwear of course, but Paul had to wonder what types? Warm, cold, casual, formal? Finally, the roadie shrugged with a “fuck it,” and grabbed bundles of different clothes, and threw them onto the bed. Shirt sleeves and pant legs tangled together with underwear and socks topping it off in some horrible mess of a hill. Looking at the array of fabrics, Paul’s tired brain soon connected that he actually needed something to put them in, and urged him to look around for his suitcase. He knew he had one, but where it was was the mystery. Nowhere in plain sight, Paul practically tore the place apart, checking every crevice. Finding it at last under his bed, he clicked it open, and began to stuff everything inside, never occurring that he may not have enough room. 

He didn’t, or rather just barely did . 

Paul pushed down hard on the lid of his suitcase, battling against the force of the many articles of clothing pushing back. One suitcase was enough, right? Never having the money to travel, the man felt no need to own more than one, but now he was paying for it. One suitcase was not enough to hold a year’s worth of pants, socks, underwear, shirts, and a book for the flights. Paul reasoned with himself that it was fine as long as he can fit everything in it, and it looked like he just did. Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Paul felt a split second of pride for such an accomplishment, and walked off to the bathroom to have a piss. 

“FUCK!” he cursed loudly as he realized he forgot to pack his toothbrush. 

Paul arrived at the studio at about 20 minutes past six, expecting to be met with a snide remark from Johnny, but no. All he saw was Brian pacing around George and Ringo who tried to calm the manager down. Instruments safely put away in cases was around them, Brian almost tripped over one of the cases as he paced. Paul figured it was his fault, and quickly went to apologize as he approached them, but was met with a different set of dialogue. 

“They’ll be here,” Ringo said. 

“Yeah, you know how Johnny and Stu can be,” George added on, attempting to halt Brian. 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, almost pulling at his hair. “I told them to be here by at least six! They do this to me on purpose, I swear.” Brian rubbed at his forehead, muttering to himself worriedly. 

“What’s going on?” Paul stupidly asked. 

“Johnny and Stu are a bit late, and Brian seems to think this is something new,” George answered. 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s nothing new, George. They should know to be here unless they want me to hover over them like a parent.” 

“You mean you don’t already?” George pushed, raising his thick eyebrows to feign surprise. 

“Bri, what George is trying to say is they’ll be here. Our flight isn’t until seven-thirty, we’ll make it. They probably just got a bit held up getting Astrid.” Ringo spoke in a calm voice, holding Brian steady by his shoulders. This was the first instance of a tender moment within the band. 

“Christ, just ‘cause we’re not here doesn’t mean you can go screwing each other!” Paul, along with the others, swiftly turned to the source to find Johnny sticking his head out of an approaching cab, the same smirk still present. Him, Astrid, and Stuart hopped out of the cab that stopped directly in front of Paul. Johnny, without his heels, was actually slightly shorter. Only by an inch or so, though. Johnny made eye contact with Paul, scrutinizing his facial features before giving a pout. 

“Aw, poor baby looks exhausted.” Johnny pinched Paul’s round cheeks, shaking his head. Agitated, Paul jerked his head away, and rubbed at his face. 

“Hope we aren’t late.” Stu said, bashfully. 

“Only by half an hour,” Brian snapped. “We have a flight to make in case you forgot.” Johnny, pushing Paul aside, made his way to Brian. 

“We here now, aren’t we, Eppy? Besides, we were waiting on Astrid to get ready.” Stu and Astrid both scoffed. 

“We all know that poor Astrid and I were the ones waiting for you to put your make-up on.” Stu said, slinging an arm around Astrid. Johnny waved them off before flipping them off. 

“Could we please go now?” Johnny asked, suddenly impatient. “Poor bloke in the cab’s waiting for us.” Brian looked to be ready to fire off another scolding, but decided against it and quietly leading them into the vehicle. 

"Don't you guys have a van or something for the instruments?" Paul's mouth was agape as the band was squashing themselves inside with their instruments on their laps or wherever they could fit. 

Brian shook his head, getting into the front seat. "There's one that I've set up to have at our first destination." Paul, not able to respond fully, just nodded and followed behind Ringo before he realized that there were no seats left. 

“Where are we supposed to sit??” Paul questioned, glancing to the drummer, then the filled car. 

“Well, you’re always welcome to sit on me lap, Paulie.” Johnny chuckled, patting next to the case on his knee. 

“Sounds lovely, but I think I’ll pass.” Paul crinkled his nose, and narrowed his eyes. 

“Too good for that, eh? Think you’re something special?” Johnny instigated, only to be hushed by Brian. “What? I’m just saying what he’s thinking.” 

“You want to know what I think?” Paul began, heat growing hotter in his chest. Before Paul could continue to something that most likely would cause a larger rift between the men, Ringo intervened with a raised hand to hail a nearby cab. The car quickly pulled over, much to Ringo’s satisfaction. 

“We’ll meet you there,” Ringo said, carefully placing his drums in the front seat, stepping into the car, and beckoning for Paul. He obeyed and followed, side eyeing Johnny while walking away with his suitcase. 

The ride began very quietly, Paul stared outside, holding the overly-stuffed suitcase close to his chest. His eyes focused on the road, his ears listened to the engine, but his mind was elsewhere. The same thoughts of the tour and especially Johnny. How was he supposed to do his job if the lead hated his guts? Hell, how was he supposed to live with him for so long? Second thoughts and doubt berated Paul. He wasn’t sure he could do this, he could feel himself begin to grow sick. 

“Hey, Paul?” Ringo reached over to touch him. Paul jumped and snapped his head to the drummer. Something in the drummer’s expression told him that he knew something was wrong. “You know Johnny’s just kidding around when he says things like that, right?” Paul grunted, giving an eye roll, and looking back outside. 

“Yes, I’m sure he is,” he said, coldly. 

“I told you, he just takes time to get used to. He really is a sweet guy deep down past the sarcastic comments.” 

“Don’t know if I’ll get around to scraping that deep.” Paul felt himself tense up as he sat up from the seat. He pressed the suitcase tighter to his chest, swearing that if he held it too tight, it would explode. Ringo also took notice, leaning over and cocking his eyebrow. 

“Do you need a second suitcase, mate?” Ringo asked with a chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood. Paul found himself actually smiling a little. 

“I think I’ll be alright, it’s just the toothbrush that took most of the space,” he snickered. 

“My, what big teeth you must have.” The tension was thankfully dropped after that as the two men chortled. Paul loosened his hold on his suitcase, and relaxed against the seat. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra suitcase would you?” Paul asked with a closed lip smile that Ringo mirrored. Paul couldn’t help but fully appreciate the man’s friendly exterior, seeming fully genuine with not a single bad bone in him. Then again, Paul would probably consider a rabid rat friendly after dealing with Johnny. 

“I’m sure we’ll find one.” 

Paul and Ringo arrived shortly after the others, spotting Brian’s waving arm through the crowd. The two hurried over as Brian impatiently checked his watch. Johnny whispered something to Stu, Astrid, and George that Ringo and Paul could not hear. Paul was sure he didn’t want to hear. 

“Seven…okay, no time to waste. Let’s hurry inside, come on now,” said Brian, quickly leading them into the airport. 

Getting to the plane was as quick and painless as Brian desired it to be. Little issues were raised, except when it came to sitting on the plane. Ringo, George, and Brian taking three seats next to each other, leaving only a couple pairs of two seats next to a stranger available. Stu was next to sit down, but before Johnny could claim the seat next to him, Astrid did so, giving Stu a grin. He turned to Johnny and shrugged. 

“Guess you’ll get the chance to talk to our new mate,” he said, turning his head to Paul, and pushing the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Grand.” Johnny sneered, glancing back at Paul before continuing to the next set of seats behind them. “If you hear me gagging, be sure to pass me your barf bag. I don’t think one will be enough.” Johnny plopped into the second seat over, placing his chin in his hand, and staring off with an already bored expression. Paul rolled his eyes and bit back a response. No point in making the flight a total living Hell. Taking his seat after Johnny so that he was closest to the walkway, Paul carefully popped open the suitcase, and dug around for his book. Finally he grabbed a hold of it and was able to actually close the case again and get it into the overhead compartment. His fingers brushed against the letters on the cover as he settled back down. He decided to bring Alice in Wonderland for some reason, perhaps because he felt almost like the main character. Stuck in a new world of strange, almost mad people, and trying to make sense of it all. Opening the book, his eyes began to scan the first page. 

_Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice, she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, and where is the use of a book, thought Alice, without pictures or conversations? So she was considering in her own mind, (as well as she could for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid,) whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain was worth the pleasure-_

“What are ye reading there, son?” Johnny’s voice suddenly brought Paul out of his reading. He turned to see his head lifted from his palm, and his eyes filled with interest as he craned his neck to read the title. “Alice in Wonderland?” Paul readied himself for whatever ridicule Johnny planned to throw at him, and decided to at least try to save himself. 

“It was the first thing I grabbed, I wasn’t really looking,” he lied. 

“You grabbed right. That’s me favorite book.” Paul furrowed his brow in confusion at the response. There was no hint of sarcasm or undermining jokes, for once he sounded entirely genuine. His eyes went from interest, to actually lighting up. 

“Is it now?” Paul asked, praying this wasn’t an elongated joke of some sort. Johnny gave Paul a nod. 

“Ever since I was a small boy. Mum used to read me it, then me uncle.” Odd combination, Paul thought. 

“Why your mum and uncle?” Paul chuckled to cover his confusion. Johnny nonchalantly shrugged, sitting back. 

“Uncle read it when mum couldn’t.” 

“Ah…what about your dad?” Paul dared to asked. Johnny reacted as though he were pricked by a needle. Shifting his weight and biting down on his own teeth. 

“He was busy,” he answered through his grit teeth. Paul took that short answer as a sign to stop asking questions and move on. Leaning over, Paul looked outside of the window as the captain made his announcement before flight. It only then occurred to him that he had no clue where they were going, he had just been floating along blindly. He tapped Johnny’s shoulder, earning a small jump from the man. What was he thinking about? Paul had to wonder, but not for too long. 

“Hey, uh, just where is our first stop anyway?” he questioned. Before Johnny could answer, Astrid, over hearing Paul, turned around to answer. 

“Hamburg,” she said. 

“In Germany?” 

“Unless you know of a different Hamburg," Johnny cut in. 

“I’ve just never been to Germany before is all. Weird to think I’ll be there soon.” 

“I’ve actually got small flat with a friend of mine, Klaus. You and the boys will have to come meet him.” Paul agreed, but Johnny became oddly irritated. 

“Well don’t act like it’s a vacation, we’re gonna be up the whole time.” 

“A visit won’t kill us, Johnny.” Stu called from the back. “Besides, Astrid said Klaus is an artist, maybe he could draw you as actually good-looking!” 

“And maybe he can draw you as less of a prick, but let’s not get our hopes up, I suppose!” Johnny and Stu’s banter carried on, but Paul began to block it out as he turned back to his book. Funny enough, he wasn’t even reading the text in front of him, just blankly staring at it. Hamburg, he thought, not believing it. Never would he think he’d be traveling outside of London, let alone to Germany. The sound of the plane’s engine roared in his ears as he felt himself lifting up with the machine. It was then that the gravity of it all hit him, he was pulled in, with absolutely no chance of going back. Was he a star in The Silver Beatles’ galaxy? No, and Paul figured he may never be, but he was there to stay for the time, even if he wasn’t exactly sure for how long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the story, I've decided to also include John's point of view to give more information, and offer explanations to certain things. It will still be Paul's story, but John's POV will appear multiple times when needed, either through flashback or not. As always, feedback is appreciated!

Johnny sighed as he entered his flat. Rather than head straight home, Johnny felt he could do with a drink or two, and took a cab to the bar for a couple hours. He had not realized how fast time could go when you’re trying to get wasted. The photoshoot had gone as well as he figured it would, and he could at least rest easy knowing the band would be touring Friday without problem, with the exception of an uptight roadie. Johnny snorted, still thinking back to earlier when they had first met. The way his eyes filled with horror and disgust the second he laid eyes on the men. Then just how flustered he became with only a bit of his teasing. It brought Johnny so much joy to give the lad a good shove after he tried running his mouth. Served him right, Johnny reasoned to himself. Paul knew what he was getting into, why should Johnny feel anymore sorry for his actions than he usually does? Taking a few more steps inside, Johnny found himself in his bedroom, and reached into his bedside table for his thick-rimmed glasses that he refused to wear outside. He couldn’t care less if he was practically blind without them, Buddy Holly didn’t exactly fit into the glam rock scene he created. With a few blinks, he strolled into the brightly lit bathroom, and stared into the mirror over the sink. It was then that he realized that a good bit of make-up, that clearly only the power of bathroom lighting could show, was left on his face. Grabbing some tissues and wetting them under the sink, Johnny pressed one of them to his cheek and first began to wipe the glitter and blush. 

 Johnny’s flat was emptier than normal. He sadly took note of that as he wiped off any remaining make-up that was missed before he left the photoshoot. Brian was always sure to have them take every bit of make-up off before going off by themselves, and yes, it made sense to do so. After all, Johnny knew about Brian’s past experiences with the kind people around them. The way they lovingly treated anyone presumed to be queer, Brian knew all about that, and just did what was best for the band. Still, Johnny had a tendency to leave some make-up on, never checking or noticing enough in the dressing room mirror. However, once he reached his flat and looked in his bathroom mirror, every little piece of glitter and left over eye make-up became visible. Though, he figured it wasn’t that bad, if  _Brian_ , didn’t even notice, strangers on the street probably didn’t either. Johnny swiped the wet tissue under his eye, then ran his finger under to collect any water left behind. Eyes narrowing and squinting into the mirror, Johnny decided he had removed everything. Tossing the used tissues into the trash bin, Johnny gave a few splashes of cold water to his face, and left for his bedroom.  

Still as empty as when he came in. Stripping to his boxers, he plopped onto his bed, guitar in one hand, with his fingers mindlessly strumming and picking strings. Johnny felt completely worn after the photoshoot, his feet ached and throbbed, even when he wasn’t even on them. Although he thought the photoshoot went well, he couldn’t help but burn up when he noticed Astrid’s “secret” gazes towards Stu. She thought he couldn’t see, but he did, and it pissed him off to no end. The frontman curled his lip, and strummed his guitar faster and harder. The worst part though, was that Johnny knew, he  _absolutely knew_  that Stu was looking back through those dark shades. Johnny wasn’t stupid, and he wished Stu didn’t act like he was, constantly denying left and right of giving Astrid so much as a glance. His strumming became faster, practically hitting and abusing the strings. They were supposed to be flatmates, bandmates, and  _best friends_ , but what had happened to that?! He wasn’t quite sure. He exhaled and shifted his eyes to his open bedroom door, leaning forward to get a look at the door. He swore he heard the door open, and hoped it was Stu, but no one was there. Just his mind playing tricks on him again. Stu probably wouldn’t return until the morning after spending all night with Astrid, of course refusing to acknowledge it. Meanwhile, they’re hanging all over each other and fucking right under the frontman’s nose, and he would never admit it. Gritting his teeth, Johnny gave another hard slam on his guitar strings, followed by a snap.  

“Shit!” he cried, sucking in air through his teeth as the thinnest guitar string lashed against his hand. He held his hand and cursed in a softer voice, then brought the guitar closer to his face. He’d have to put a new string on, but he could always do that tomorrow. Pushing the guitar aside, John rubbed his eyes and craned his head back, suppressing a groan. Just as he did that, the sound of a door opening interrupted him, this time it was surely real. He went to hop off of the bed, yet chose to not greet whomever it was at the door. He knew who it was, and wasn’t going to act like some housewife greeting her husband. So instead he grabbed a book off of the shelf and sat back on the bed, making it look like he was reading this whole time.  

“John? Sorry I’m late, I’ll buy you dinner or something to make up for it.” Stu’s voice called. John made no move to respond, only giving a slightly louder than average hum. That was apparently enough for Stu because he stood in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the edge. His sunglasses were in his hand, and then put into his pocket as he continued inside. John glanced up for a second to see to see Stu’s grin, which only made flare his nostrils in response. 

“I know you’re not actually reading.”  

“How do ye reckon that, Aunt Stukie? Have I got this book here for me health?” Stu only reached out and snatched the book, earning an annoyed grunt from the other man.  

“It’s upside down,” Stu said, turning the cover to him. “Poor Alice already looks like she’s falling down the hole.”  

“I knew it was upside down,” John countered. “I was trying to get a new perspective. You learn a lot from looking at a book in a new way. May find a blatant secret hiding away.”  

“Oh, yeah?” Stu laughed, sitting next to Johnny on the bed. 

“Yeah, you’d know a lot about that, wouldn’t ye?”  

“For God’s sake, Johnny,” the bassist groaned as he placed the book on the other bedside table. Johnny wasted no time in opening the drawer to the small table on his side to pull out a box of cigarettes and a match. With one swift move, he lit the match, then his cigarette, inhaling the smoke, and releasing it with such smoothness. He caught Stu staring, his words stuck in his throat as he focused on the smoke slowly leaving Johnny’s lips, and circling them. It was Johnny who got the next word out before Stu could even form the words with his lips. 

“I’m only saying, son, you’ve been hanging around with that blonde tart an awful lot more is all.”  

“John…” 

“Were you visiting her hotel room just now? Bet you two had a fun time testing the new springs in the mattress, eh?” Johnny spitefully asked, a cruel laugh following.  

“She just wanted to see some paintings I’d done, that’s it.”  

“Didn’t realize it takes the poor girl to look at a couple paintings for a couple hours. Kind of you to help her out.” The way Johnny spoke of Astrid would make anyone believe that he completely hated her guts, but that just wasn’t true. He didn’t  _hate_  her, but he would never admit the real reason for his anger; his insecurity. The insecurity that he just wasn’t enough and that Stu would wise up to that and finally go. Johnny quietly awaited for the bassist’s comeback. Stu only rolled his eyes, and John took another puff of his cigarette. Holding out his hand, Stu silently requested one as well, and the frontman grudgingly obliged, even lighting it for him as well. God, maybe he was becoming a housewife. An arm snaked its way over Johnny’s shoulders, drawing him closer to Stu. 

“You can get pretty ugly when you're jealous.” 

 “And yet I’m still prettier than you,” he quipped. Stu took his own puff, then leaned in to press his lips to Johnny’s cheek.  “Sod off.” He pushed Stu away with a firm hand. The bassist went to say something, but stopped when he noticed the mark on Johnny’s hand.  

“You been thinking while you play again?” he snickered, lifting Johnny’s hand up to get a better look. A thin, reddened line marked in his skin made it clear what it was from. Johnny refused to answer at first, he almost debated playing it up. Maybe try to make Stu feel a bit guilty for being slightly responsible for such a terrible and devastating injury to his poor hand. But he decided against it, not really feeling the need to completely look like some melodramatic bird.  

“Always thinking, you ought to try it sometime.” 

“Love it when you’re so kind.” Stu drew in more smoke, pushed his closed lips to Johnny’s, urging him to open. He did so, and accepted the breath of smoke into his mouth, pulling away from his bandmate to exhale. As he did so, Stu took full advantage by putting out his cigarette, and burying his face into the crook of the frontman’s neck. He placed small kisses on his skin, moving to Johnny’s Adam’s apple  and suckled lightly on his skin.  

“Gonna take more than blowing smoke down my throat and a couple kisses to make up with me, Sutcliffe,” Johnny said with a half-smile forming on his face.  

“Yeah? And just what were you expecting  _Mr. Moonbeam_?”  

“Well, me feet are pretty sore.” Johnny wriggled his eyebrows and toes. Stu scrunched up his face as a response. 

“I’ve got a better idea.” The bassist ran his hands up and down the sides of Johnny’s torso, his calloused finger tips tickling him. 

“That idea involve padding in those god awful heels?”  

“Hm, not exactly.” Reaching downwards, Stu grazed his fingers over Johnny’s crotch, eliciting a tiny whimper. Johnny arched his back as kisses were peppered over his chest, stopping at one of his nipples to swipe a tongue over it. The frontman’s hands finally found their way to Stu’s hair, massaging the scalp with his fingertips. Stu only answered with a hum against one nipple, while pinching the other. 

“Christ… you maybe wanna hurry up a little?” Johnny questioned, attempting to push Stu’s head down a little. 

“You’re impatient today, huh?”  

“I’d say quite the opposite considering how long I’ve waited for your arse.” Johnny pushed Stu harder, but he was too stubborn to allow himself to be budged. However  Johnny was just as stubborn and refused to quit. 

“What? Were you waiting for me at that bar you smell like?” Stu laughed again before allowing his head to be push down Johnny’s body, stopping short at his stomach to plant another kiss just above his navel. Holding Johnny’s hips, he continued lower. Another kiss to his hip, then lower, lower, lower until he completely went past the growing erection in Johnny’s boxers, to his right thigh.  

“You fucking tease.” Johnny laughed shallowly, then groaned when the other man lightly bit the skin.  

“Where’s all that patience you claimed to have earlier?” Stu asked, getting rewarded with the kick of Johnny’s heel to his back.  

“Just suck me, would ye?” 

☆☆☆ 

Friday morning came quicker than Johnny anticipated, the days seemed to always fly before and during tours, when they could actually schedule them that is. Without even checking the clock, Johnny knew it had to be about five in the morning. He cursed under his breath and rolled over to face the middle of the bed. His eyes still shut, he reached out to lock an arm around the bassist. Though, when he did so, all he felt was the air. He opened one eye, and even if he were practically blind, he could still tell that Stu was not next to him. Now that Johnny thought about it, he didn’t even remember Stu coming back to the flat last night after they had gone out. No, he remembered now. They arrived back at the flat together, then the phone rang, and Stu went to answer it. Right after he said he had to go, and take a look at some photos Astrid took, and then work on some paintings in the small studio he had.  

“Painting,” Johnny grumbled, “my fucking arse.” He rolled out of bed, now grateful that Brian  took care of packing in one of his frantic states of getting everything ready ahead of time. Stretching his arms out, then bending over to crack his back.  

“Jesus…” Johnny rubbed his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. Those beers he had were also coming back to his memory. He decided he could do with some aspirin and a coffee, then get pissy about everything else later. He stumbled out of his room, into the living room, somehow finding his way to the kitchen without tripping over furniture, or puking all over it. Finding the kitchen light, he had to shield his eyes from the unholy burning, before realizing he might as well spare himself and keep the light off. Thankfully, the darkness was not as much as a hindrance as it could be thanks to bis usual late night adventures while trying not to awaken his flatmate, at least when he was actually  _here._ He even figured out how to use the coffee maker while the room was busy spinning.  

The smell of coffee was a welcoming smell, making him almost forget why he felt the need to smash Stu’s teeth in.  _Almost_.  

Taking a seat at the little table, Johnny down the aspirin with his coffee, the welcomed warmth filling him. As the aspirin went down his throat, Johnny had to clench his jaw, and hold any bile that threatened to rise up. He almost lost that control as the flat door was slowly pushed open. Johnny sniggered at how quiet Stu was trying to be, as if he could ever get past the frontman. He even slipped off his shoes, and didn’t bother with the light. 

“Morning, love,” Johnny sneered, taking another swig of his coffee. “Out  _painting_ again?” 

“Actually I was, and I’m fucking exhausted,” Stu snapped.  

“Well I’m sure Astrid was enough help for you,” Johnny retorted, waiting for Stu to come forward so he could get a better look at his face. He didn’t, and instead went to drop onto the couch.  “What? Don’t want to discuss the dirty details?” 

“Fucking God, can’t you get that nothing’s happening?!”  

“Hard to do that when you two are eye-fucking each other every chance you get, and then going out alone all fucking night!”  

“I told you I was going to paint. I just lost track of time.” 

“It’s five in the morning, Sutcliffe. You telling me you were up all night painting some new shite that a total of two people will look at?!” 

“Fuck off, at least I put those years of school to use, unlike you.” 

“Shut up! I’m actually making money with this band, this band is  _art_.”  

“Is that what you call it to feel better?” Stu snorted. That was it, Johnny stood up and stomped into the living room, ignoring any head pain. He yanked Stu up by shirt, growling like a rabid dog.  

“Think yer so smart and artsy don’t ye?!” Johnny spat, giving him a shake.  

“No, Johnny, and especially not as smart and artsy as you,” Stu said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  

“Why don’t you and that bird go and create an exhibit then?! Oh, right, no one would even blink towards your stupid paintings, let alone force themselves to stare at them for longer than a minute!” Johnny shouted excitedly waving his hand all about, and releasing Stu. Johnny waited for Stu to become enraged, and lash out, but he was instead holding back. He was taking a few breaths, and clenched his fists tightly.  

“Come on, is Stuart Sutcliffe too good to fight back now?” Stu didn’t say anything. Johnny gave him a light shove. “Well?! Go! You clearly wanna be with her! So you can be with her all you want!” 

“What the hell are you talking about now, you bloody queen?!” Johnny pushed him again. 

“Oh, so you can speak! “ Johnny exclaimed dramatically. “I’m talking about how you can go with yer bleeding bird and get the hell out of the band!” 

“Me and Astrid aren’t going anywhere,” Stu retorted. “Besides, you can’t find replacements the day of the tour anyway. Brian, along with George and Ringo would cripple you!”  

“How do you know?! I found that bloke for our new roadie!” 

“ _Brian_ found him, you mean.” Stu stepped closer and held Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny could see those piercing eyes, even through the blurriness of his eyes, and darkness of the room. 

“I got him hired though,” Johnny shot back, “so don’t think you're special.” His words faded out as he focused on the hands gripping him. His eyes shifted to one of his hands, then before he knew it, Johnny was holding that hand. He brought it closer to examine, squinting his eyes to focus. He could have felt it, even if he couldn’t see, thick, dried paint was caked on Stu’s hand.  

“You’ve got paint on ye,” he stupidly said, letting the hand drop. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Stu chuckled. The mood began to lighten again as Johnny began to chuckle too, and that chuckle soon evolved into a roaring laughter that could put a hyena to shame. The frontman collapsed on top of the bassist, bringing them both down onto the couch that thankfully caught them. Johnny straddled the man, smiling down at him triumphantly. 

“You’re a bastard, you are,” Johnny said with his nose buried in Stu’s dark hair, but without any mean-spiritedness he once hah attached. Stu responded by wrapping his arms around Johnny’s waist, one hand moving down to cup his rear. Johnny moved his lips down to Stu’s neck, and madly chuckled as Stu yelped at the possessive bite.  

“Don’t leave a mark, git.” Johnny wasn’t listening and sucked a bit on the area before tugging at the bassist’s shirt. 

“Get this off,” he growled, unbuttoning the shirt impatiently.  

“We’ve only got half an hour, John.” 

“We’ll be quick.” Johnny, finally at the last button, pulled the shirt completely off. 

“We still have to get Astrid.” 

“She can wait.” Johnny tweaked one of Stu’s sensitive nipples, rewarded with a long moan. 

“Brian will skin you if we’re late.” 

“We won’t be.” Johnny took Stu’s head in his hands, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs.  

“John-“ 

“Come here.” With that, their lips were firmly pressed together, another lovely noise escaping Stu that made Johnny’s toes curl as the vibrations hit his lips. Hands grasped at flesh, hair, and clothes, the two becoming practically lost in each other. Just a quickie couldn’t hurt, he figured. 


	4. Chapter 4

_Paul_ _couldn’t tell where he was, but it was certainly not the plane._ _He s_ _aw nothing but darkness and the shimmering of lights_ _of what looked to be stars. The roadie could not help but stare at the lights, as the rest of his surroundings were rather bleak and empty._ _The longer he_ _stared_ _, the more the lights flashed and blinked, becoming brighter_ _every_ _second. Clicks began accompanying the lights,_ _the sound filling the vacuum_ _._ _Were there voices now? Paul couldn’t tell, the clicks becoming_ _deafening. Paul pressed his hands to his ears, squeezing his eyes shut while the flashes_ _continued, and inaudible voices spoke gibberish under the clicks._ _His body was suddenly thrown to the ground,_ _shaking as his knees scraped against the invisible surface._  

 _“Christ, stop!!_ _”_ _He found himself_ _hopelessly screaming as he was shaken again_ _, forcing him on his side_ _._ _The funny thing was that he knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear his own voice._ _Paul shrieked again, ducking his head down, but still nothing._ _Curling up, with his knees_ _pressed to his chest, Paul screamed hopelessly again. It isn’t real, he told himself, it ISN’T, but_ _it never ended. Just then, a_ _voice_ _then_ _came above the noise, one so incredibly clear, it was impossible to not hear_.  

“Hey, hey, son, get up,” Paul heard Johnny say in his out-of-it state. Johnny gave him a small shake, and Paul only responded with a mumbled attempt at a response. “C’mon slobbering all over me, you are!” Paul finally opened his eyes to realize that he was resting on Johnny’s shoulder, and quickly sat up, wiping at his mouth. The book that once rested open on his lap, now fell to the floor with a light thump.  

“Christ, sorry,” he apologized, inspecting Johnny for any actual trace of saliva. To his luck there was none to be seen. Johnny didn’t seem irked or angry, though, but much more amused. 

“Can’t keep yer paws off me,” Johnny chuckled, “and you talk about us being queer,” he added in before going quiet as he awaited a response. 

“Falling asleep on someone’s shoulder and looking the way you do are two separate things.” Paul furrowed his brow, but he knew he shouldn’t be showing how it got to him. He knew Johnny was just trying to annoy him, but he fed into it hook, line, and sinker each time.  

“Don’t start crying about it, Macca, only teasing.” The roadie was ready to jump at him, but was taken off by the nickname.  

“Macca?”  

“Your last name’s McCartney, ain’t it? That’s what Eppy said it was.”  

“It is.” Paul knew the nickname, he wasn’t daft. He had classmates who would call him that when he was younger, but hearing it out of this older man just threw him off so much. Especially considering that they were as far as two could get from using nicknames for each other.  

“Then there’s the answer,” Johnny said, lifting his eyebrows. “Besides, wouldn’t wanna mix you up with another Paul, would we?” 

“There’s no other Paul with you.” 

“You never know, we could decide to get another Paul with us. Maybe one with less sticks shoved inside his arse.” 

“So you can put your prick there instead?” Paul quipped, cheeks pink as he answered.  

“Keeping it classy, eh, Macca?” Johnny said, clearly growing tired of such remarks. His tone shifted in less than a second to his usual sarcasm. “But yes of course, what man wouldn’t? Don’t want the little guy to get scratched up, do I?” Johnny said with a toothy grin. “Why else do ye think I’ve been staying away from you.”  

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Paul scoffed, noticing the book at his feet, but not bothering to get it. He saw Johnny watching him with the same challenging look of when they first met.  

“Nice try, I’ve seen the way you stare at my arse, and how you try to touch me. I ought to report you for such harassment.” Johnny sat back, his chin up, and hand daintily resting on his forehead. Paul fought the ever so strong urge to punch Johnny right in the jaw.  

“Sod off,” Paul said, unamused at the accusations. “I wouldn’t try even if you were the last person here.”  

“You wound me, Macca, you really do.” Johnny slapped his hand on his chest. Paul muttered under his breath, leaning over to grab the fallen book. He shut it and rested his head back on the seat, his arms tightly crossed.  

“Whatever, I’m going to back to sleep.”  

“Oh, as much as I love to watch you sleep, we’ve landed,” Johnny said, standing over the roadie. Paul rubbed his eyebrow, another mutter making its way out. His head rolled, cracking his neck about three times before he finally stood up to claim his baggage. Johnny simply snaked by him, purposefully pressing close to him, and stood waiting for Paul. 

“Don’t you have anything?” Paul felt the need to ask, realizing that the only thing he had seen the band with were instruments. Johnny nodded, urging Paul to follow down the aisle, out of the plane.  

“Yeah, Eppy brought it all early. Doesn’t trust us, thinks we’ll probably lose something ever since Ringo once forgot to pack his outfit." The drummer must have heard, as he shouted to them from the exit of the plane. 

“I told you Maureen wanted to clean it and forgot to pack it!” Ringo defended, following Brian and George down the steps, followed by Stu and Astrid, then Johnny and Paul.  

“Maureen?” Paul inquired. 

“My wife, she lives back in London.” Ringo answered. Paul would be lying if he said he wasn’t the least bit surprised that one or  _any_  of these blokes actually had girlfriends or wives that fully knew what they did for a living.  He wondered if the others had girlfriends, mainly Johnny. Going off of his personality alone, Paul figured that members of either sex could not bare to become involved with that. Though, masochists do exist, Paul suddenly thought, and bit back a snicker. Thankfully, Johnny, nor any of the others noticed Paul biting the inside of his cheek.  

Brian led the group to the airport, making sure every single piece of luggage was there. The man scanned everyone with a sharp eye, trying to catch anything that might be missing. Paul thought the man looked like a machine in human skin the way he  everyone grabbing their suitcases and bags. Once he was fully sure that they had everything, he was quick to get out of the airport, claiming that their ride would be there shortly. Johnny tapped his foot, turning to Stu and Astrid. 

“How is it that your friend always takes his time getting us?” Johnny asked Astrid, who only told him to be patient. The frontman huffed and continued to tap his foot. Paul looked to his side to see the younger man he remember being called George. In a hushed tone, Paul whispered to him. 

“He always so patient?”  

“Most everyday,” George answered. Paul wasn’t completely sure why, but looking at the younger man now, something about him seemed familiar. With a horn blaring through, Paul brushed it off and looked up to see a fair sized van approaching. A man with a similar haircut to the band stuck his head outside of the window. Paul had to wonder just how many people had these damn mop looking haircuts. He waved the group down, coming to a halt in front of them. Hopping out with his arms outstretched, he brought Astrid close for a friendly hug.  

“How have you been? Have they finally thrown you off the edge?” he asked, a German accent similar to Astrid prominent. 

“Completely,” Astrid answered, pulling away. Klaus gave a wave to the others, receiving small greetings. Paul saw George go forward, met with an excitement in Klaus’ eyes.  

“Georgie, it’s been forever!” Klaus wrapped an arm around George’s shoulders. 

“About a year,” George replied. “Still need a drawing model?”  

“Always do,” Klaus ruffled George’s hair, messing it up more than it was. George laughed, squirming in his grasp as Klaus relentlessly messed with his hair. Pulling away from the young man, Klaus took notice to the new member of the party and tilted his head curiously. He questioned who the man was, only to be met by Paul’s out-stretched hand. 

“Paul McCartney, I’m the new roadie.” Paul put on his best smile, trying his best to not make it seem fake.  

“Klaus Voormann if we’re going to be so serious and formal,” he playfully pouted and put on a serious expression. Paul wasn’t bothered by this, he could sense the harmlessness in him. 

“Yeah, expect that from this one,” Johnny cut in, patting Klaus’ shoulder.   

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” A smile was directed towards Paul that put him at ease, before Klaus went back to Johnny with his thumb pointing to the van. “Let’s get you to your hotel. You’ll need some rest before tomorrow, right?” 

“Yes, we don’t need you boys falling over each other on stage,” Brian said with a nod to the vehicle.  

“At least, not of sleep deprivation,” George said.  

“Yeah, let the booze take care of that," Ringo was suddenly heard, followed by a short laugh whilst being huddled inside with everyone.  

“Goodness, the absolute gall!” Johnny cried, stepping into the van after tossing his suitcases inside. “Control yourselves, boys,  _please_!”  

“You’re one to talk, Johnny,” Stu shot, following with Astrid being tugged along.  

“Yeah, last I checked,  _you_ were the one who threw that bottle into the audience last gig!” George said.  

“And the one who waltzed off stage, and began feeling up half of the other drunks mid performance,” the drummer added in. “Nearly gave Bri a heart attack.” Paul couldn’t see it, but somehow he just knew Johnny was responding with some immature gesture such as sticking his tongue out or shooting his middle finger up. But by the time Paul actually got inside, Johnny was lazily lounging in his seat, taking up more space than necessary. His legs stretched out and touching Stu’s, but the other man didn’t mind, well, he didn’t seem to. Paul still was not sure how to judge Stu’s reactions and emotions too well. Still, he seemed fairly content to sit where he was, chatting with Astrid. Paul figured he would stay out of it, and climbed into the seat behind them, next to George and Ringo.  

“Hope you’re a good driver,” was what George suddenly stated. Paul didn’t have to ask as George was quick to answer with an explanation. “Since you’ll be the one driving this thing mostly and all. I don’t really want to be in the newspaper because we got a shit driver,” he told him dryly, receiving a shove from the driver. As George spoke, Paul actually began to focus on the man’s thin face, still not over whatever it was about him that seemed familiar. It suddenly clicked as a smile spread over George’s face while Ringo pretended to scold him. 

“Come off it, Eppy wouldn’t book us a shit driver considering he’ll be in the same van.” 

“He may have a death wish and want to bring us with him, you never know.” Paul didn’t wait much longer and spoke up regardless of who was about to speak. 

“George,” he interrupted, gaining both of their attentions. “What was your last name again?”  

“Harrison?” George shifted, glancing to the drummer. Paul hummed, still studying his face. 

“Where, uh, did you live? Before London, I mean.” 

“Liverpool, figured that was obvious.” The roadie’s eyes widened, though George’s face remained unchanged, still as confused as ever.  

“I remember you,” said Paul, still no response from George. “When we were kids, we used to sit together on the bus, you lived near me, remember? The McCartney kid?” George’s eyes lit up, his jaw dropping open. 

“Shit, yeah I remember you!” George brightened up, snapping his fingers. He looked like he couldn’t believe it at first. Paul couldn’t blame him, how often do you see an old mate after leaving the place you grew up in? And in such a strange way as having him as your new roadie, nonetheless.  

“You knew each other?” Ringo asked, interested and somewhat amused.  

“Yeah, Ritchie, we shared a seat on the bus to school. Used to be best mates, having little jam sessions together.” George’s eyes ran up and down Paul as he came to his own conclusion. “You don’t look too much like you used to, though.”  

“No?”  

“Nah, you were a lot fatter.” Paul wasn’t sure whether or not to feel insulted or flattered by that comment.   

“Gee, thanks.” 

“I never would have pictured you to be a big kid,” Ringo found himself chortling along with George. 

“Well, I mean you’ve still got the same chubby cheeks, but the rest must have just fallen off.” The guitarist puffed out his cheeks to illustrate his point more. Ringo nodded to George’s words, noting himself that Paul’s cheeks were in fact incredibly soft and round. Then proceeded to also puff out his cheeks.  

“ _Anyways_ ,” Paul nearly shouted, but kept it down. Last thing he wanted was for Johnny to overhear and get involved. Lucky for Paul that Johnny was too busy teasing the  assist to hear anything. Biting his lip, Paul’s embarrassment did not waver. “It’s so weird to see you again.. like  _this_ , y’know?” he said, diverting the subject from himself. 

“Yeah, must be fate.” George ran his forefinger and thumb down the sides of his deflated cheeks. He then asked his own question for Paul. 

“Do ye still play guitar?” Paul nodded his head. 

“Only when I’ve got spare time.” George gave an empathetic nod.  

“Used to be pretty good, I remember,” he said to the drummer. The roadie felt a twinge of sadness at his wording.  _Used to be pretty good_. It hurt in a way, to think he was no longer the musician type he was seen as a child. No, now he was the guy that lugged equipment around for those musician types. There was a strange emptiness forming in his gut from that. 

“Do you know anyone else here? Most of us came from Liverpool too.” Ringo asked, causing Paul to give a quick look up from his self-deprecating thoughts, and then around the van. The faces were not all too strikingly familiar. None of which really caused a spike in his memory such as George did. Johnny from the side though, did hit something in his brain, but Paul couldn’t decipher it. Whatever it was, it apparently wasn’t strong enough to elicit a response from his brain, so he chose not to acknowledge it. If it truly mattered, it would come to him. Oh well, he shrugged, then stating that no one else stood out as much.  

“See that, Ritchie?” George nudged his bandmate. “I’m special,” he said with a proud smirk.  

“Now look what you’ve done,” Ringo said to Paul, “given the lad a big head, and he was doing so well with being humble.” 

“Humble doesn’t get you famous!” George pointed out, poking Ringo in his side. “Back me up on this, Paul!”  

The roadie shook his head. “That it doesn’t.” He forced a false smile as another spike of what mixed sadness and emptiness, stabbed into him again. There was now definitely a dash of envy now in the horrible concoction brewing inside. Yes, Paul got to travel around and go where the band went, but it couldn’t compare to being a member. Getting on stage to cheering fans, experiencing all the glamour of being a rocker. The only glamor Paul would get is that time on stage setting everything up, then it was back to the sidelines. Of course he wasn’t having a go at roadies, some enjoyed their job and wouldn’t want to be in a band member’s position. But Paul  _craved_ that, as stupid as it may sound to some, and he could have had it if he just got the chance. All he needed was one chance, and hopefully this job would help in a way.  

After dropping Astrid and Klaus off at his flat, Paul took to the driver’s seat, and was instructed to where they would be staying. The hotel they were staying at was nothing like Paul expected. Call it naïvety of a band’s life on the road, but he expected a little more. The hotel wasn’t horrible by any means, but it was anything far from great. It was a dingy, average sized place with oddly dark lighting, as there were barely any lights and most of them were dim. Still, the band looked around, content with the place. 

“Same as when we were last here, eh?” Johnny asked them, and everyone but Paul answered with an agreed hum. Brian made his way to the desk, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie as he called for the woman’s attention. 

“Hello, er, Epstein, two rooms,” he said, holding up two fingers to the lady, praying she would understand. He looked to be put at ease as she understandably nodded, and accepted the money he had pulled out of his wallet. Dropping two keys into his hand, she pointed to the elevator, but the band was already ahead of her, already standing by it. Paul hurried over along with Brian. The manager handed one key over to John, and held onto the other as they stepped into the elevator. 

“You’ll be staying with me, Paul,” he instructed. “Is that fine for you?” he felt the need to sprinkle on, as if Paul would choose to share a room with the obnoxious frontman.  

“That’s fine.” 

“Ooh, Paulie, better watch out,” Johnny said in a sing-song tone. “Eppy’s quite the player, he is.” Paul noticed how Brian bit his lip while flushing at the remark. He felt a bit bad to see the kind manager get teased, but Paul already put up with enough to not care as much. All he cared about was getting to that hotel room.  

The room he was in with Brian was just as dingy and average as the rest of the place. A small area for a couch and television, that connected to a kitchen (with only a fridge and stove), a door that led to a bathroom complete with the bare essentials, and two bedrooms. The sight of the two bedrooms came with such an elevating feeling that was so extreme, he could not find it in himself to groan about how dark or musty the place was. He could have jumped for joy at the wonderful thought of his own bed, nothing else in the room mattered at that time.  

“The first show won’t be until tomorrow night at eight, so you’ll have the day to do whatever, and make sure the boys don’t get into any trouble,” the manager explained. Paul assured him that he would keep a close eye, and nothing would happen. Brian rambled on a few other things about how Johnny could get with too much to drink, or how the group had a tendency to wander about in the worst areas, but Paul was too focused on finally getting to shut off from the world. So he did what most would do, nodded and pretended he understood everything said to him as to get the speech over as quickly as possible. Once he was sure Brian was finished, Paul bid him good night, and shuffled to his room, lugging his suitcase behind. He swore he heard it rumbling like an active volcano as he pulled it along.  

☆☆☆ 

A sharp gasp ripped from Paul’s throat as he shot straight up in his bed. Sweat covered clothes clung to him as he became aware of his surroundings. He had the same exact dream again that night, except this time no one was there to awaken him. Rubbing his forehead, Paul took one last draw of breath before collapsing back into his pillow, though he couldn’t shut his eyes just yet. What about that dream haunted him so much? Granted, it was no skip through the park, but it was a relatively typical nightmare. He’s had way worse after watching a scary movie on the television, but this was apparently the dream that went too far. He found it too difficult to close his eyes, not wanting to fall back into the dream, and quickly scolded himself for being such a baby. Paul sighed, baby or not, his body had decided for him that sleep was not on the schedule for the rest of the night, what little was left as the sun began to rise. 

 Throwing the covers to the side, Paul went to his suitcase to fetch his book. As he turned to where he left off, Paul thought back to Johnny taking notice to him on the plane. How his eyes grew as he mentioned that it was his favorite book. He didn’t even resemble the man Paul was used to in that moment. A smile crept onto the roadie’s face as he pictured Johnny’s face, but was lost once Paul remembered the reason for his smile. Sure, the frontman had  _one_ nice moment, but that didn’t make up for the rest of time Paul spent with him. One beautiful aspect doesn’t cure the twenty other shit ones. With his fingers grazing the page, Paul delved into the book world, rather than one of slumber, which was better than nothing, he supposed. 

 _In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again._  

_The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then_ _dipped_ _suddenly_ _down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so sorry this is so late (I had some difficulties writing it and deciding on just what I wanted)!   
> Also, I wanted to let you guys know that updates for this will be slowing down a lot for a bit because I plan on writing a story for this McLennon Big Bang fic event, and will be posting it here! So if you'd like, definitely check it out! (Hint: it's an au involving marriage) Thanks!

By around seven-thirty, Paul had migrated from his bed, to the couch just outside. There was an attempt to watch television instead of sticking his nose in the same book, but gave up when nothing caught his interest. The room went back to silence, all for the exception of a louder voice ringing through the thin wall. It was coming from next door, meaning it could only had been one certain band, mainly a certain lead singer. His voice was easily recognizable, but he could barely understand what he was saying. Definitely was not anything good, judging by the overall tone. Though, that was all the roadie could get out of it besides a couple “fuck you’s” getting thrown around. Then a slammed door reverberated against the wall that shook Paul like as if it were a gunshot. After that Paul came to the conclusion that he should probably stay out of it, and chose to leave them to their quarrel.  

Decidedly, he spent his remaining amount of the early morning usually reserved for sleeping, reading his book. He had finished the book, and started it again, not wanting to turn to any other outlet to forget his disturbing dream. He finished the book again, and read it,  _again._ Each time, he sympathized more and more with the little girl, Alice. As he made his way through the book for the third time, Paul found himself more drawn to the segments featuring the Cheshire Cat or even the Mad Tea Party, again, most likely out of relatability.  

 _‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice._  

 _‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t even have come here.’_  

 

"I must be mad then, too," Paul snorted as he spoke aloud to the empty room. 

 

 _The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: ‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice coming._  

 _‘There’s plenty of room!’ said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large armchair at one end of the table._  

Paul practically could memorize these small bits that seemed to stick out as he read over them again and again. As time went by, he found himself replacing each of the characters with one of The Silver Beatles, just to create even more of a connection to the story. That fun began the second time reading through, as the White Rabbit was introduced with his cry of being late. Instantly the nervous manager appeared in his mind, rather than a rabbit, and it all started there. Then on, he decided to take up dog-earing the pages with moments he could draw to the band, but only the most blatantly obvious to himself. Some members were thought of more than others, of course. Ringo appeared as the caterpillar on the mushroom, George the Dormouse, Stu the March Hare, Johnny the Mad Hatter, Johnny the Cheshire Cat, hell  _Johnny the Queen of Hearts._   There was certainly a pattern of who would appear most often in Paul’s mind,  but he actually did not find himself minding as much, drawing a giddiness picturing the loud, short tempered frontman as this queen proclaiming, “Off with her head!” over something as small as a smart retort. Queen was quite a fitting title indeed, Paul decided, dog-earing the page mentioning her, and flipping on as he stifled a yawn/laugh mixture.  

A voice broke him out of his little sleep-deprived fun. Paul's head shot up from his book to see it was Brian, shuffling out of his room with a red robe loosely draped over him. The manager grumbled and stretched his back, the rubbed at the nape of his neck. Strands of short, dark, curled hair hung over his forehead. He looked utterly exhausted. Certainly portraying a polar opposite to the usually well-kempt man Paul only had the pleasure to see during the day and evening. Paul gave a nod to the man. 

"Morning," Paul greeted, offering a friendly smile.  

"How long have you been awake?" 

Paul shrugged, eyes moving to the clock over the television. 

"Maybe since...five?" he guessed, shutting his book, and laying it on the coffee table. He twisted his body until he heard a satisfying crack, tugged on the hem of his white t-shirt, and relaxed against the couch.  “I couldn’t really sleep.”  

“I see,” Brian said with a somewhat understanding tone, walking to the connected kitchen. “Coffee?” he offered as he reached into the cupboard for a can of coffee beans. The manager gave it a shake, then popped the lid off to look inside. He then grabbed a fresh filter and filled it up. 

“Please,” Paul answered, turning to the dark yellow wall that looked like it had not been cleaned since the place first opened. 

“So the first gig’s tonight, eh?” Paul asked, not tearing his eyes from the wall. Brian answered with a short, “yes” as he watched the coffee machine while holding a breath in. It made some odd sputters and artificial groans, but began to finally brew. The two welcomed the rich smell of coffee after appearing minutes and minutes later. Paul’s eyes now fixated on a brown stain on the wall, just seeing that there were multiple stains he never even noticed. 

“Where at?” The roadie jumped when the couch shifted as Brian took a seat, two cups in his hands. Gratefully taking one, Paul brought the cup to his lips. The coffee tasted incredibly stale, leaving an aftertaste that could shrivel the strongest tongue. But he truly couldn’t find it in him to mind, and took another gulp. 

“The Indra Club,” said Brian, taking a smaller sip, following with a face of disgust. “Eight tonight still.”  

“Giving the lads ample time to wreak havoc while I’m with them?” Paul asked with a grin 

“If you don’t think you can handle them, I’ll stay with you,” Brian offered, reluctantly placing the cup to his lips again, another sour face, then clearly deciding the coffee was not for him, and placed it down. 

“I’ll manage. I’m here to work, aren’t I?”  

“Yes, I just thought I would offer. They are  _my_ boys, and I understand how they can get,” Brian snapped.  

“They’re not five year olds, they’re grown men.”  _Some more than others_ , Paul thought. Shaking his head, Paul’s cup landed right next to Brian’s. “You take a rest, alright, Mr. Epstein?” Paul gave the manager’s knee a pat, then moved his hand to Brian’s shoulder. Brian mimicked Paul's head shake, slumping his shoulders in defeat. 

“Please contact me if you need help. I’ll most likely be here, trying to get some rest,”  

“I will, but I doubt I’ll need to,” Paul confidently told him. 

Brian said, pulling something out of his pajama pants pocket. Paul leaned closer to get a better look and realized it was German money. The manager took Paul’s hand and stuffed the money into it. “Go get them and yourself something to eat, yeah?” Paul rubbed his thumb against the paper, feeling the small crinkles formed from being carelessly stuffed away 

“Are you sure? What about you?”  

Brian gave a wave. “I’ll be fine, I’m not very hungry right now. I usually eat a bit later.”  

“Okay,” Paul agreed, not bothering to put up a fight against taking the man’s money. He looked at the clock and saw it was almost eight, and as much as he would love to check up on the lads after all of that noise, Paul saw it best to wait just a bit longer. Placing the ring of his mug to his lips, Paul sadly realized that he had drank the last bit of his coffee. Sure it was the stalest, most bitter coffee he’s ever tasted, but it was a source of much needed caffeine, nonetheless.  

“Any more coffee?” Brian only answered by pouring his own drink into Paul’s cup, an amused grin played on his face.  

“Have mine, I can’t quite get a taste for it.” Gratefully, he tilted the cup back finding himself savoring the terrible taste sticking to his taste buds. The manager gave a longer yawn, every exhausted wrinkle that seemed almost out of place for a man under the age of forty became apparent. Placing his now empty cup down, Paul thought to question Brian for any information on what all the noise was about next door, like he was some all-knowing being. But how could he not suspect Brian knew something that could give a bit more light of the racket in the other room? The manager did say he knew how his boys were, so he had to at least have an assumption. Not only that, but the poor man looked like he had gotten less sleep than Paul! There was no way he slept peacefully through it. Paul knew that he had to have an idea, but for some reason Paul held back his question. Call it fading interest, or even the caution to not pry out of fear of getting in too deep with the band. No matter what, Paul’s teeth firmly held his tongue as the two sat in silence. 

☆☆☆ 

Two hours passed, and Paul now found himself banging his fist against the hotel room door, calling for the men. No answer, but that would not make Paul give up as he knew he heard them earlier. Brian had told him to keep an eye on them, whether that meant in or out of the hotel until eight had no difference to him. They could spend the whole day in the room for all he cared, Paul just wanted to make sure it was clear to all of them that he was there, and there was no getting rid of him. Another knock from Paul. Johnny, as expected, told him to piss off and leave them alone. Ringo claimed they would be there in just a minute, while George mumbled something inconceivable, but it was most likely a string of curses. A click sounded and the door opened, welcoming Paul inside.  

“Why so early?” the drummer asked, patting his hair down. Paul knew they were awake earlier, yet looking at Ringo and George who came up from behind, they looked like they had just awaken. They were incredibly disheveled with bags under their eyes.  

Paul shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep and heard you guys were already awake ,” Paul explained, not noticing Ringo’s dropping face, and walking inside. Johnny, lying flat on his stomach with his chin rested on the arm rest, pried one of his eyes open. He gave the roadie a, what should be now trademarked, glare before shutting his eye again. Everyone was in the room, Paul saw, with the exception of the bassist. 

“Where’s Stu?” 

“Who gives a shit?” Johnny said, voice low and filled with malice. 

“He’s painting,” Ringo told him, ignoring Johnny’s comment. The drummer leaned over to look past Paul, to the couch before adding quietly, “with Astrid.”  

“She paints too?” 

“No, but she quite likes his work.” 

“Yeah, that’s  _all_ she likes about him,” Johnny spat from behind them.  

“Sorry, he gets like this,” the drummer whispered.  

“Acting like a right bird,” George said shamelessly loud.  

“You’d know, Harrison,” came Johnny again as he turned on his side with a huff. Christ, the man was  _five years’ old_. Closing in on himself, pouting like someone took his favorite toy. Although, Paul did understand how he felt in a sense. He had to keep an eye on them, but how could he when one was off painting God knows where? Paul could feel a bubble of frustration in his own stomach.  

“Should I be concerned about Stu?” The guitarist shook his head. 

“This isn’t the first time we’ve been to Hamburg. Stu’s always gone off on his own to paint, but he meets us at the gig on time,” George assured, his voice blocking out another comment from the frontman. Paul mumbled an “okay,” and continued to the tiny couch that Johnny was sprawled out on. Even from where Paul stood, the pungent odor of cheap beer bit at his senses mercilessly. It was past nine, and the man was already drowning himself in beer like it was running out at a rapid pace. Noticing that the man was lazily staring ahead, Paul turned his head to see that the television was on. It was a German news station with the volume turned completely down. He was just trying to seem like he was preoccupied.  

“You wanna move yer fat arse? Can't see the tele.” Johnny suddenly asked bluntly. Jaw dropped, the roadie's face featured great offense for a split second. Out of pure pride, Paul moved so that he was completely blocking Johnny. The way the frontman narrowed his eyes in annoyance popped that bubble of frustration within his stomach, and brought about a different bubbling feeling. It was so satisfying to get to the an, even just a tad bit.  

"Are ye deaf?  _Move_." Paul turned back to the screen to see the news reporter's lips flapping along to words he couldn't hear, nor understand anyway.  

"Since when can you read lips or understand German?" Paul retorted, hand resting on his hip.  

"Since when did you give a shit?" Johnny snarled.  

Paul huffed and tapped his foot. "Are you going to lie there all day watching a man talk?" He outstretched his hand to the television for emphasis.  

"Maybe, I'm a grown man, aren't I?!" Johnny pushed himself so that he was balancing on his elbow, his hand finding Paul’s side. Before the roadie could comprehend it, he was forcefully pushed to the side, almost stumbling over. George and Ringo rushed to catch him, but Paul was thankfully able to stop his fall. Johnny had not even made a noise in response; not a chuckle or comment, he was completely quiet and focusing on the quiet screen.  That was it for Paul, if Johnny was going to act like a child, he would be treated like one. The roadie stomped over to the set, pushing through the noise, and found the outlet. He leaned down and gave one pull on the plug, welcoming back the silence he never truly appreciated until just then. The frontman's face was dumbfounded as he jammed the remote button again to no avail. 

"What the hell? Who the fuck do you think you are?!" 

"Are you going to get up now, Johnny?" Paul challenged, swinging the chord in his hand as the two bandmates hid their snickers. The lead singer was too sharp, jerking his head to them, instantly hearing them.  

“Plug it back in,” he demanded. Paul just shook his head and tossed the chord to the side. The giddiness of irritating the man furthered the sickly sweet feeling inside him. He actually found his hand shaking as he defiantly held his stance, as if he was still holding the chord. George and Ringo clearly saw it was time for them to step in as it was much too early for Paul to get a black eye over a television. The roadie faced the other two, giving one side glance to the frontman before speaking.  

“I thought we could get a bit of breakfast. Brian told me that there were a couple nice places, and gave me some money.” Paul dug into his jean pocket to present the German currency. He wasn’t exactly certain on how much this would equal back in London, but trusted it was a fine amount for a decent breakfast. 

“That sounds fine, I don’t trust anything from this place, anyways,” Ringo said with a shrug. The drummer shifted as he was lightly elbowed by the guitarist, Ringo turned to George then back to Paul. “But, er, we were also looking forward to checking out the docks, and visiting a few places.” 

“Places?” Paul questioned suspiciously.  

“Well, yeah…” the drummer fumbled. Paul curiously inquired to what he meant by “places.” Ringo uncomfortably bit his lip and looked to the guitarist for help. 

“They mean a whore house, daft git,” Johnny interrupted, sounding sick of him beating around the bush. Paul’s breath stifled, his face warm like a new oven.   

“Whore house?” Paul must have sounded like their flabbergasted mother with his hanging jaw and widened eyes. “I’d ask why, but I think I’d sound too naïve. Brian told me to keep you lot out of trouble, how would he react if he knew I let you go to a…whore house?” He made sure he said the last bit as low as possible, remembering just how paper thin the walls were. “Absolutely not.”  

“Spoilsport!” shouted Johnny mockingly from the couch.   

“Stay out of this!” Paul shot back. “No, no, Brian would have an attack if he found out!”  

“The other roadies never gave a shit. Can’t you just not say anything?” George whined. Paul quickly shot him down with a hard “no,” crossing his arms sternly.  

“I’ve already got Stu off wherever, I don’t need to explain  _three_  missing members.” 

“Alright, fine, sorry we asked, Paul,” Ringo put his hands up in surrender before George could talk.  He gave George a little shove and nod to stop him from any more objections. Surprisingly to Paul, George actually gave in as well. 

“Okay, great,” Paul said, clasping his hands together. “Brekky, yeah? What’s a good place?”  

“We can show you,” said George. “Just have to get dressed.” 

“Sounds fine. I’ll wait,” Paul took to the couch, pushing Johnny’s legs off of the cushions.  

“You mind?”  

“No, not really. You’re the one not even dressed,” the roadie plopped down, agitating the other man further.  

“Who says I’m going?” 

“The one who’s meant to make sure you don’t go off doing anything stupid.”  

“Fine, then I’ll go like this.” 

“In your shirt and boxers?” 

“Why not? If anyone’s got a problem, that’s their fault.” Paul was in utter shock when he found the corner of his mouth tug into a grin. The absurd thoughts and actions of Johnny were becoming almost entertaining, not irritating. It was clear that Johnny still wasn’t budging, only staring ahead at the now dark screen, and Paul thought that maybe a different approach was needed. 

“Please?” he asked as nicely as he could, softening his voice, and even fluttered his lashes a little. That got Johnny’s attention it seemed as he finally looked towards him. His sour expression faltered as he made eye contact. Paul actually started to find himself in the same state. This eye contact was different from before, there was no malice or battle for dominance, it was neutral, almost mutual. Like any moment with Johnny, it didn’t last as he put on a smirk and lifted himself up. 

“Well since yer gonna beg me, fine,” he sneered, strolling to his room. Paul tried to find it in himself to be annoyed, but he was still to lost in the trance. He watched the man disappear from his sight as though he had seen a completely new person peek from the glamorous shell of Johnny Moonbeam.  

“I really am going mad,” Paul whispered to himself, patiently awaiting the others.  


End file.
